


Where Do The Lonely Souls Go?

by anonymouslywriting



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, boyf riends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouslywriting/pseuds/anonymouslywriting
Summary: Drabble: inspired by the song “Where Do The Lonely Souls Go?”, sung by George Salazar himself, From Moment by Moment





	Where Do The Lonely Souls Go?

**Author's Note:**

> Including:  
> University!Jeremy  
> Working!Michael  
> British!Jeremy  
> Older!Boyf riends

"Where do the lonely souls go?"   
Jeremy sighed at the bright yellow lights surrounding him. He had never,  _ ever _ figured that dating Christine Canigula led to going out to midnight screenings, with alcohol which  _ shouldn't  _ have needed smuggling, and would result in his sorry ass being dumped. Even if said dumping involved one of the most touching and thoughtful tipsy speeches that she just wasn't into him that way.    


"McDonalds at 3am..." He sung under his breath.    


"Actually, I think it's more like half two.” 

Jeremy frowned up at one of the staff, a brown-skinned boy with round glasses and one cocked eyebrow.

“I thought I’d been here for longer.” Jeremy huffed, resting his chin on one hand with half-drooping eyelids.

“Oh hey! Cute, drunk,  _ and  _ British!” The guy said with a grin. “Cheeseburger, medium fries and strawberry milkshake?”

“Yep -  _ wait _ , I’m not pissed.” Jeremy said slowly. 

“Sweetie, I don’t mean you’re angry, I mean you smell like a margarita blender.”

“Pissed means drunk, you tosser.” Jeremy muttered. The server merely laughed and set Jeremy’s food down. 

“Don’t worry, I have zero issue with drunk kids; I shouldn’t be legally working a twelve hour shift here at two-thirty in the morning, but here I am. Gotta pay for gas somehow.”

“America’s weird.” Jeremy grumbled. “I wouldn’t have to pretend I was sober in England, I'm  _ not  _ a kid! I'm nineteen and at university - if I wasn't on exchange here, I'd be considered an adult like every other student in the UK.” Jeremy picked up a fry, pondering it for a second but then turning back to the waiter. “Also by the way, most of your ‘British’ stereotypes are based upon English people; you guys seem to have forgotten that Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland also exist and are nothing like us.”

“Oh-ho, you're definitely pissed now, and just gettin’ cuter.” The guy pushed his hair back with a careless hand and another charismatic grin.

“Are you  _ grafting  _ me?”

He stepped back, looking affronted. “I do  _ not  _ know what that means but it sounds terrifying, so I'm gonna go with no.” 

Jeremy rolled his eyes, feeling a blush spread up his cheeks. “Flirting. It means flirting.”

A grin spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. “ _ Oh!  _ Well in that case, you-” he whipped out a biro from his pocket and pulled the cap off with his teeth, “-tell me. Over the phone. Tomorrow morning, when you're sober. I hope your college isn't far from here.” He grabbed Jeremy's hand and scribbled a number on the back. “The name’s Michael!” He shot Jeremy one last evangelical smile, turned and made his way back to the kitchen.

Jeremy blinked at his retreating figure. Had he, Jeremy Heere, just been chatted up at a McDonald's, in New Jersey, at two-thirty am?

  
  



End file.
